Collateral Damage
by dysprositos
Summary: "Collateral Damage" is a nice way of saying, "You screwed up, but we don't want you to feel too bad about it." Which is all well and good, but sometimes something goes down so badly that the euphemism is more of an insult than a consolation.
1. Into the Ocean

Warnings: language, attempted suicide.

Thanks to my beta, irite, without whom this would have been relegated to the "there's no fucking way I'm publishing this" pile.

The title of this chapter is a reference to the Blue October song, "Into the Ocean," which is one of my favorites. I do not own it.

I also do not own the Avengers.

* * *

If someone is at all capable of swimming, it is rather difficult to drown in five and a half feet of water.

Unless, of course, he or she is very short, very intoxicated, or just not trying very hard to _not _drown.

Currently, Tony Stark was two out of three of those.

Although, really, he wasn't exactly a paragon of height, either. Still, a lot of his current issues could have been alleviated by standing up. That didn't seem like a particularly worthwhile course of action, though. It was too much goddamn work. It was easier to just let the waves wash over him, breathing when he could, and not letting it bother him too much when he couldn't.

Not being able to breathe was generally a cause for concern, but being concerned was too much goddamn work, too. And breathing should really be reserved for people who deserved it, deserved to have oxygen and not water filling their lungs.

Tony Stark was not one of those people. He might have been before (though even that was questionable) but he certainly wasn't _now._Not after today.

The real problem, Tony thought, (because it _wasn't _his hit-or-miss ability to breathe) was collateral damage.

"Collateral Damage" was a nice way of saying, "You fucked up, but we don't want you to feel too bad about it."

Which was all well and good, but sometimes something went down so fucking badly that the euphemism was more of an insult than a consolation.

And sometimes you did not deserve platitudes any more than you deserved oxygen in your lungs.

A particularly large wave crashed over him, and he found himself held under the water for almost fifteen seconds. It was quiet there, and peaceful, and through the alcohol-induced haze that was softening all the sharp corners in his mind, he wondered if maybe he could stay down there forever.

But the laws of physics kicked in (as they were apt to do), and he broke to the surface, choking.

He thought for the first time that this might not be a good idea. But that was okay. It wasn't like he was known for making good decisions. There was no point in starting now.

This particular bad decision, though, was one that he imagined no one would have expected.

For one, he _hated _water. After Afghanistan, it had taken months before he was comfortable with doing things like...showering. Actually being submerged was a completely different story—he had avoided swimming pools for the better part of two years. The ocean? Way too volatile, unpredictable. He had avoided that, too.

So, for at least one reason, this seemed completely uncharacteristic. Tony thought maybe his lingering fears had driven him to this, like maybe his unconscious mind had wanted to make this as awful as possible. For some kind of penance, maybe, like he could _ever _make up for what had happened.

And people said that Tony Stark lacked insight. That particular tidbit was worth of Sigmund Fucking Freud himself.

The other reason that this was uncharacteristic was, of course, that no one would ever expect Tony Stark to drown himself.

Drown his problems, his _sorrows,_ certainly, and he had tried that. But tonight was different, tonight _he _was different, and the alcohol had done nothing to quiet the guilt and horror shrieking through his subconscious.

He hadn't set out with this particular goal in mind. He had just taken the suit for a flight, went down the Atlantic coastline, ended up on the beach. But he was so fucking _impulsive_. The line between thought and action was always so thin for him, and the ethanol in his blood dismantled his reasoning skills and stretched that line to the breaking point.

Tony wasn't sure even now that he was committed to this, but he also wasn't sure that he had another option at this point. The water was cold, and he was numb, and his brain had mostly shut down. He didn't think he could get himself out of this now, even if he had wanted to.

And maybe that was okay.

Because he had changed today, had shed the thin layer of "hero" that he had painted over himself like a new color on the suit, had become something else entirely.

The change had happened so fast that it left him dizzy, reeling. But now the world had righted itself, and the dust had settled. And Tony was left with the realization that he was _not _a hero any longer, if he had ever been one at all.

Because even if he wasn't exactly evil, he was _stupid _and _arrogant_, and maybe that was worse. He didn't listen, and he didn't take orders, and that had killed 80 people just as easily as Loki had with his scepter and megalomaniacal fixation on world domination.

Well, eighty-seven people, to be exact.

Half of whom had been children.

The whole thing could have been avoided, too, and easily. But he couldn't miss an opportunity to fuck with Rogers, even in the middle of a showdown with heavily armed terrorists. Because his personal pleasure overrode any other concerns, right?

But Rogers had seen something that Tony, distracted by JARVIS and his undeniable compulsion to get the last word, didn't. And the Captain had tried to warn him, but Tony didn't listen—why would he? He was always right, always so fucking confident and self-assured and _invincible_.

Had been, anyway, until he inadvertently set off a bomb that had exploded far, far too close to the school bus parked outside the modern art museum.

They told him, afterwards, that it wasn't his fault. It was an _accident_. Anyone could have made the same _mistake_. No one blamed him, not really, so he shouldn't blame himself. It was collateral damage, the sort of thing that should be expected to happen during a battle in the middle of the streets of New York.

They said that no one blamed him, but that wasn't true. Because he saw it on the news, later, on almost every fucking channel. They _did_ blame him, and he _did _blame himself and maybe anyone could have made the same mistake, but it had been _him_. And that was fucking unacceptable.

It wasn't like he was innocent before, like he didn't _already _have blood on his hands. This shouldn't have hit him as hard as it did. He'd spent four hours trying to figure out _why_, but the answer wasn't at the bottom of his bottle of scotch, and it wasn't online (he'd used Google), and it took him all of those four hours to figure out the answer was that this was _actually _his fault.

Platitudes be damned.

Another wave, the largest yet, went over his head. He rolled in the water, the black sky above indistinguishable from the black water below, and he couldn't tell which direction was up.

When something (_probably some_one) grabbed him by his arm and began tugging him back towards shore, he was both relieved and profoundly disappointed. Too drunk and dizzy and exhausted to put up any kind of struggle, he went limp and just let himself be dragged in.

Opening his eyes a few moments later, Tony found himself deposited on the sand amidst the scattered pieces of the suit that were strewn for almost 100 feet down the beach. Getting out of it on his own had been a bitch; picking up the pieces was probably going to be worse. He wasn't sure if he could commit to that.

Well, he could always go back to drowning, if he found he couldn't.

"What the hell are you _doing_, Tony?"

Or maybe that _wasn't _an option.

Of course, it _would _be him. Captain Boy Scout. Turning his head, Tony could see the single headlight of a motorcycle parked maybe fifty feet down the beach.

"Tony?" And then Steve was kneeling next to him, checking to make sure he was breathing (_Am I_?) and that he hadn't actually managed to drown himself in less than six feet of water.

_I should say something. Put him at ease. _"Hey. F-Fancy meeting you here."

Steve didn't seem to be too interested in banter right now, though, and he didn't seem reassured. "Tony. What are you doing out here?"

Tony deflected, "H-How did you find me?" Christ, it was cold out, wasn't it? _You think? It's the middle of the night, it's October, and you're soaking wet, dumbass. If the water didn't get you, the hypothermia would have._

"JARVIS," Steve said. "I had him track the location of the suit...well, Bruce suggested it. And, um, you glow, so it wasn't too hard once I got close."

That made sense. "Oh."

Steve said again, "What were you _doing_, Tony?"

Tony found the repetition to be insupportably annoying. "What do you _think_?" he replied. He'd been aiming for 'acidic,' but the actual delivery fell somewhere between 'pathetic' and 'weak.'

"I think...you were..." and although the lighting was terrible, it was bright enough for Tony to see the half-pitying, half-concerned look that Steve was currently giving him.

Pity. Like _he _deserved pity.

Tony found that he felt suddenly nauseated.

He managed to roll onto his side before vomiting up a stomachful of scotch and seawater.

_'Pathetic' isn't a big enough word for this, Stark, you're going to need something better._

"Are you okay?" Steve asked him, and Tony thought that was a pretty stupid question considering the circumstances. Steve apparently agreed, because he followed up with, "Of course you're not, geez. We should get out of here."

Tony let Steve guide him to his feet, and they walked towards the motorcycle. Twenty feet into their journey, though, Tony stumbled. Lacking the energy or motivation for more movement, he stayed down.

When it became apparent that Tony had no intention of moving, at least immediately, Steve sighed and folded himself down so that he was sitting. Tony, through great effort, managed to maneuver so that he was also sitting, head bent down between his knees to ward off the lingering nausea.

Tony pretended not to notice when Steve draped his coat across his shoulders. _Fucking samaritan, he might make me puke _again_..._

They sat for almost five minutes, the sound of the waves breaking on the shore filling the silence so that they didn't need to speak.

"I heard what they're saying on the news," Steve said, eventually. "It's not true. It's not your fault."

"Huh. 'Cause I thought that one guy with the phone had caught a pretty clear video of me detonating a bomb, Rogers," Tony replied. "Kinda hard to argue with that sort of evidence."

Staring at the water, Tony missed the glare that Steve was giving him. "Yeah. I guess. But did you put the bomb there?"

Tony scoffed, "Does it matter?"

"Actually, yeah, it does. You can't blame yourself every time something like this happens—"

"You mean every time I'm too fucking stupid to listen for five goddamn seconds and end up killing almost a hundred people?"

"You didn't kill those people."

Tony stood, sudden, unsteady. "Yeah. I _did_. What the fuck, Rogers, did you get elected to come give me the post-fuck-up pep talk? No, wait, you probably _volunteered_," he sneered.

Steve followed him up, steadying him when he nearly collapsed again. In that moment, Tony hated him almost as much as he hated himself. "Back the fuck off already!"

"Why? So you can drown yourself?" Tony tried to interrupt, to deny, but Steve just talked over him. "That's not going to happen. Look, what happened today was awful, and yeah, maybe you made a mistake and maybe those people didn't have to die—"

Tony turned away, unable or unwilling to listen to this, but Steve grabbed his arm, stopping him. "But you're never going to make that mistake again, Tony. So this isn't the answer."

"What? How can you _know_ that? That's just who I _am_, I'm careless, and reckless, and I shouldn't be _playing superhero_, Jesus, Rogers, they were _kids_—"

Steve interrupted him. "I know that you're not going to forget what happened. You're never going to forget those people. You are going to carry this for the rest of your life, Tony. You will remember this every day until you die. You will never forget, and because of that, You. Will. _Never_. Make that mistake again."

_Oh, God. _"...Every day?" In the face of that, his anger dissolved completely, leaving him empty and passive under what felt like an unbearable weight.

"Yeah."

"I...don't know if I can do this." Spoken with naked honesty. It would be so much _easier_ to just give up. But maybe Rogers was right. Was an impulsive, reckless action the best way to atone for an impulsive, reckless action? Maybe a better place to start would be _listening _to him, for once.

"You can." Steve replied. "I know it feels like you can't, but it'll get easier, with time."

"Yeah?" Without looking at him (he felt too raw and exposed to manage anything as intimate as eye contact), Tony started walking towards the motorcycle. He'd come back for the suit in the morning. Maybe send someone else to get it. He'd had enough of this beach for the rest of his life.

Steve followed Tony, pulling his keys from his jeans pocket. "Yeah. It doesn't fade completely, though. Never will. Kinda like a scar, I guess."

They got settled on the bike, and were soon putting the miles (and that fucking beach) behind them.

Leaning against the super soldier (who radiated warmth; bless his metabolism), Tony wondered what scars _he _ was carrying.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please review; it does wonders for my soul-crushing insecurity.

I _might_ have one more chapter of this rattling around somewhere, but I'm not going to commit just in case I can't ante up.


	2. Weight of the World

Warnings: some violence.

Many thanks to my beta, irite, who was so helpful and supportive as I tentatively ventured into the world of angsty!Steve.

The title of this chapter is a reference to the song "Weight of the World" by Blue October. I do not own it.

I do not own the Avengers, either.

* * *

Tony ended up with pneumonia, and that just pissed him off.

"Christ, Rogers, you should have just let me _die_," he'd snarked one afternoon, five days after the beach. "Anything would be better than this." And he'd punctuated his statement with a vicious coughing spell that left him red-faced and out of breath.

Steve, predictably, did not find that statement amusing. "Don't say that," he'd chastised. "It's not funny."

And Tony reassured him that it was _just _a joke. He hadn't felt that urge, that compulsion, since the night that Steve had pulled him out of the ocean. No, he was filled with crushing guilt, and more self-loathing than he had thought possible, but the self-destructive impulse had apparently passed.

After That Night (which had, in Tony's mind, achieved capital letter status), Tony had not moved from his bed for two days. He had only moved on the third day when Steve had literally carried him out of his room, intending to take him to the hospital. Steve claimed that JARVIS had told him that Tony was running a 104 degree fever, was having 'significant difficulty' drawing breath, and that the billionaire seemed to require immediate medical attention.

Tony had resented JARVIS's betrayal (despite his analysis being completely correct), and had protested mightily (at least, as mightily as someone with a 104 degree fever _can _protest). In the end, Steve had relented in his quest, but only long enough to let Tony change out of his Iron Man pajamas.

The hospital had kept him for two days, and sent him home with a truly impressive number of antibiotics as well as a strong advisement to avoid swimming in October and to "come in for a damn vaccination once in awhile."

Tony _loved _hospitals. And doctors.

The antibiotics had taken care of some of the infection, but now, on Day Seven, he was still prone to minute-long coughing fits. Like the one that overtook him while he was in the kitchen, trying to figure out which one of Bruce's 43 varieties of tea would be the least offensive to his taste buds and most therapeutic for the burning pain in his chest.

The physicist himself had appeared seemingly from nowhere while Tony was mid-cough, as if sensing a potential disturbance in his tea organizational schema. Tony had allowed Bruce to lead him to one of the couches in the lounge and to deposit him there, but had immediately dismissed him. Bruce had disappeared for a moment, before returning with a cup of tea. He placed it on the table in front of Tony with a smile. "You should try this one." _Then _he'd left, returning to whatever it was he did when Tony wasn't commandeering his time for 'more important' things.

The tea wasn't so bad, really. But he'd really rather have a scotch.

He flipped the TV on and settled for some cheesy movie about World War II. Less than five minutes later, Steve walked in and sat next to him, and Tony was not at all surprised. Because Steve had been omnipresent for days. Watching, and worrying so hard that his concern had nearly manifested into its own physical form.

Really, Tony didn't blame him for it, after the whole almost-drowning thing, then the whole almost-dying-of-pneumonia thing (although he insisted that he hadn't been anywhere _close _to death). Truth be told, he _was _having a pretty bad week in terms of keeping himself alive.

That didn't mean he didn't find the hovering kind of invasive.

"You know, the uniforms weren't anything like that," Steve said by way of greeting, gesturing at the TV.

Well, Tony could play along. Maybe then, it would feel more like a conversation and less like he was being babysat. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. The government would never have paid for something half that nice. They had other priorities."

Tony raised an eyebrow, surprised to hear the Captain sounding so jaded. Usually, he looked back on his time in the military with nostalgia. Curious, he asked, "What kind of priorities?"

"Well, me, for one. Come on, Tony, you have to know how much that kind of research costs."

Tony did. "I'd say it was money well spent, though. The government's really gotten their money's worth. And the longevity of their project is pretty impressive..." he trailed off as it became apparent that Steve wasn't actually listening to him. He'd apparently become absorbed in the movie. On-screen, the soldiers had just rescued a group of Jewish children from certain death in a concentration camp. Their gratitude and joy was evident, and Steve's expression while watching the scene was completely... transfixed.

The movie cut to a commercial break, and Steve shook his head as if trying to clear out some unwelcome thought.

Well, that was interesting. And Tony lived to poke at people. "What gives, Rogers?"

"Huh? Nothing."

"Bullshit. What's so interesting about the Anne Frank crap?"

Steve glared at him. "You should be more sensitive, Tony, the Holocaust was...terrible. Worse than terrible. And there wasn't always a happy ending, where the soldiers showed up and rescued everyone before something bad could happen..."

From the way Steve lapsed into brooding silence, Tony could tell he was getting close to the source of this sudden dark cloud. "So? There's no point in feeling bad about it, Rogers, it's not like it was your fucking fault. There wasn't anything you could have done about it, you were chasing HYDRA across Europe. Stopping what's-his-face. Schmidt. That was kind of important."

For a long moment, Steve did not speak. After several beats of silence, he stated, "There _was _something I could have done. At least once. But I screwed it up. And there was no happy ending."

And Tony knew then that he had hit the nail on the head. "That Night," he began, and they both knew which night he was talking about, "When you were telling me that I was never going to forget what had happened, that I was going to have to carry that for the rest of my life...that wasn't just a platitude. You were speaking from experience."

It wasn't a question, but Steve treated it as one. He nodded.

"Okay, Cap. So spill."

* * *

They had been, as Tony had put it, chasing HYDRA across Europe, disrupting their operations wherever they could find them.

Things had been going pretty well. They had stopped some pretty screwed up stuff. Horrific science experiments, weapons manufacturing, research that Steve could not understand beyond realizing that it needed to be destroyed. He was starting to feel pretty good about the work they were doing, like they were making a major impact on the war effort, really making a difference.

And they were. HYDRA was so busy defending themselves from Steve's team that they weren't able to put any new ops into action, and once they were on the run, their capacity for mayhem and destruction was drastically reduced. Steve really felt that they had gained the upper hand.

They were cocky. Hell, _he _was cocky. And why not? The HYDRA scum was on the way out.

The next target was a research facility in northern France. Steve had led his team in, taking out the few guards that they found, but it seemed like the place was mostly deserted. He figured that the man in charge had gotten wind of their approach and had fled already. It wouldn't have been the first time. They had garnered quite the reputation. Still, to be sure, Steve had his team sweep the building, looking for anyone who had remained behind.

As it turned out, HYDRA had _not _fled. Rather, they had moved into the back room of the building, taking all of their 'research' with them.

Steve learned this from a conversation shouted through a 6-inch thick steel door.

He had also learned that their 'research' consisted mostly of young Jewish children, between the ages of five and nine, who had been part of a series of experiments on twins. Steve could hear them screaming and crying, begging to be rescued, and the sound made him almost light-headed, rendered him nearly incapable of clear thought.

The officer in charge had demanded that Steve and his associates leave the premises immediately, or else they would start shooting the children as an incentive for them to depart.

As an alternative, the officer suggested that Steve trade himself in for the children, since he would be a 'most fascinating' research subject.

When it became clear that Steve was actually considering this second option, Bucky had pulled him aside roughly. "You're not actually considering this."

Steve shook him off. "We're not leaving those kids in there."

"Yeah, okay, but _this _is not the best way to do it, Steve, you can't know that they'll even–"

But Steve walked up to the door. He said over his shoulder, "We're not waiting. Don't worry about me, I can get out of there. These HYDRA flunkies are always incompetent. Make sure the kids get to safety." Louder, he called, "I'm coming in!"

The officer yelled back, "Nice and easy, Captain, we don't want anything to happen to the children!"

So Steve slipped through the door, trying not to wince as it slammed behind him. He had to restrain himself from struggling as a guard grabbed his arm roughly, but he knew that if he _did _struggle, these scumbags wouldn't hesitate to hurt the kids. He forced himself into stillness.

In a moment, Steve found himself with his arms bound tightly behind his back, a gun pressed point-blank to his head. Steve reached slowly towards the gun strapped to his leg, but the guard tightened his grip on the trigger of his rifle. "I wouldn't move, if I were you."

Steve froze. He realized, then, that he hadn't thought this through as thoroughly as he should have. Because he was now rendered completely incapable of doing anything.

"Okay, I'm here. Now let the kids go." Steve surveyed the room. He counted nine children, four pairs of twins and one lone, unpaired child. With a jolt, he realized what had probably happened to the tenth child, and he had to battle down a wave of nausea. He had to redouble his effort as he took in their appearances more carefully. It was evident that they were terrified. They were all also clearly malnourished, and covered in bruises and badly-sutured gashes. Some looked so weak that it was a wonder they were managing to remain upright at all.

The officer walked up to him and circled him slowly. With a sneer, he said, "Of course we will set these children free. They have served their purpose. They have brought me the great Captain America."

So it had been a setup. Steve hadn't planned for that, either.

The officer made a dismissive gesture, and the children looked at him in wary disbelief before they shambled (slowly, agonizingly slowly) towards the door. But just as the first child reached it, the officer made another gesture, this one meant for the guards.

Steve understood what was going to happen a second before it actually did. But he had given himself up, had allowed himself to be bound, and now all he could do stand, paralyzed with horror.

He could not even manage a yell to warn them. Not that it would have helped.

At the officer's second gesture, all of the guards (except for the one with his gun pressed to Steve's temple) raised their rifles. Almost as one, they opened fire. And in an instant, what had been nine children had become nine corpses.

When they heard the gunfire, the rest of the team came bursting into the room. Steve took advantage of the distraction, and ducked out from under the gun at his temple. Before the guard could react, he was dead. As were all the others. As were the scientists who had been lingering in the back of the room.

Steve's team was nothing if not effective.

Bucky whipped out his pocket knife and cut the rope binding Steve's hands. Then, they all stood in silence, taking in the scene around them.

Steve managed to last almost a minute before he lost his battle with the nausea, and leaned over to vomit.

* * *

Of course, everyone told him that it wasn't his fault. He'd tried his best, and sometimes things just went south. And he'd made sure that those scientists wouldn't be doing any more research like that. So, even though there had been some collateral damage, the mission was ultimately a success.

Steve wondered if they knew how ridiculous that sounded. Because he could not wrap his head around calling _anything _where nine children had died a 'success.'

That night, he'd sat by the fire at their encampment, staring into the flames long after the rest of the team had gone to sleep.

He'd found himself idly fingering his pistol, the gun that had been uselessly strapped to his leg when he'd allowed those HYDRA to mow down those children. A fat lot of good it had done. A fat lot of good he had done. What use was a supersoldier who was so _naïve _that he'd just run into a hostage situation and expect that the hostage takers would actually do what they said they would? Could he risk his cockiness, or his unthinking _need _to rescue others, getting in the way again? He was supposed to be a damn hero, but he wasn't. People saw him as a symbol, and he inspired hope, but what use was he when he was so rash and reckless?

He carried the weight of the world, but he could drop it at any second. And anyone who followed him, anyone who trusted him to save them...they were in danger. His idiocy, his weaknesses, would get them killed.

Like those children.

No, he wasn't a hero.

He took the gun from the holster, feeling the weight of it in his hand.

"Don't."

Of course it was Bucky.

"What happened today...it really wasn't your fault. You know?"

Steve laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. "How was it _not_?"

Bucky didn't reply, just settled onto the ground next to him. Gently, he took the gun from Steve's hand, re-holstering it. Steve put up no resistance, letting the gun slide easily from his loose grip. He knew that wasn't the answer. Just...for a moment, it had seemed like it was. Like it was the _only _answer, the only way to make sure that no one ever made the mistake of trusting him again.

But that urge had passed, now, like a fog blown away on a stiff breeze. Its departure left him completely empty, momentarily void of all feelings.

They watched the fire together. After a lengthy silence, Bucky asked, "It's never going to happen again, yeah? What happened today?"

The guilt came rushing back, nearly choking him, and Steve thought he might not be able to take it, if it _did _happen again. "No."

"Then that's what matters. Do it differently next time."

"What if...what if I don't? What if I do the exact same _stupid _thing–"

Bucky turned and shot him a disbelieving look. "Do you really think you'll ever forget this?"

At the moment, Steve could not imagine there ever being a time where the memories of that afternoon weren't playing in a constant loop on the backs of his eyelids.

Bucky nodded, correctly interpreting Steve's expression. "I don't think you need to worry about making the same mistake twice."

* * *

"And he was right," Steve finished. "I never forgot, and I never did that again."

Tony sat for several seconds in stunned silence, struck completely dumb.

When he'd recovered the ability to speak, he said, "Jesus, Rogers. I didn't...that's..."

Steve shrugged. "It's in the past. Further in the past than it feels, really, but I guess that comes with being asleep for 70 years."

"But still. Christ. I never thought..."

"Never thought what?"

Tony didn't answer. Instead, he asked, "Does it really get easier with time, or was that just something you said to make me feel better?"

Steve nodded. "It does get better. You can't erase your mistakes, you know, the big ones _do _follow you forever."

"That's really encouraging, Rogers." Tony broke into a coughing fit.

Steve waited until he was finished. "But you can't let the guilt eat you."

Tony's guilt was still raw and exposed, and aching. "I don't...it doesn't feel like there's a choice."

And Steve reached over and plucked the remote control from Tony's hand. He flipped the channel to Discovery. "Sure there is. Use the guilt to build yourself up. Make yourself stronger. Beat yourself up with it until you know damn well that you'll do _anything _to make sure sure you don't repeat that mistake."

Tony wasn't sure that was a particularly healthy way of working through guilt, but he didn't say anything.

He didn't exactly have room to judge.

* * *

And so ends my first foray into the character of Steve Rogers. The two of us don't get along so well, so this was pretty hellish to write. Let me know what you think.


End file.
